The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  Kathryn’s eyes are bloated with tears. She starts to say something to JJ and then drops her head. JJ stands, taking both of Kathryn’s hands in her own—they are still as statues, except for the tears running down both their faces. An interior door opens and a middle-aged woman wearing a dark business suit walks toward us. Her steps are slow and deliberate, giving us time to adjust to the inevitable. She has ruddy cheeks and teased hair the color of cotton candy that has been left out in the sun. She introduces herself as a medical examiner’s investigator. As soon as she says her name, I forget it.

  “Who is here to identify the child?” Her voice is soft, with a practiced, pastoral cadence.

  Bucky, JJ, and Kathryn stand.

  “I’m sorry, but I just need the child’s biological parents.” Kathryn sits down.

  Mrs. What’s-her-name, I presume she’s married from a wedding set on her left hand, looks at me and Frank. “And you are?”

  “Friends,” Frank says. Mrs. What’s-her-name asks us to take seats across the room. Kathryn grabs my arm the minute I sit down. “I loved her, too, no less than they do,” she says in a watery voice, cupping her hand over her mouth.

  The investigator motions Bucky and JJ to sit. She sets a chair in front of them and lowers herself slowly as though she were starting a Japanese Tea Ceremony. She lays a blue folder on her lap, places her hands over it, and takes a slow breath.

  “Our procedure is not to ask you to view the child’s body, but rather to identify her from a photograph.”

  “No photograph. I want to see her.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stewart. I understand that you want to touch her, but this is our policy. If this is your daughter, we will release her body in a matter of days. And then you’ll be free to touch her.”

  “Now. I want her now.” Bucky scoots to the edge of his chair until his knees touch the investigator’s legs and they are almost nose-to-nose.

  “When there is no obvious cause of death, we need to run a battery of tests. The results of these tests can take up to six weeks, sometimes longer.”

  Bucky clenches his fists.

  “Please understand. We don’t need her body for six weeks. We can release her in a day or two.”

  JJ touches Bucky’s arm. He pulls it away as though he’s been burned, hesitates, and sits back. The investigator remains motionless—only her chest rising and falling in rapid respirations betrays what is beneath her calm.

  “Testing is a matter of standard policy and government regulations. The tests are necessary to determine the cause of death when it is not obvious.”

  Now JJ moves to the front of her chair. “Was she beaten or raped? Can you at least tell us that?”

  “The results of the tests will be released to . . .” The investigator opens the blue file and looks at her notes. Her every movement slow and deliberate. “Officer Manuelo Ochoa.”

  “Why not to me? I’m her father. Or to her mother?”

  “Because this is an open homicide investigation. Our policies are mandated by law. Within a month, we will also convene a child death review system involving the police, child protective services, county mental health, the district attorney’s offices, myself, and possibly one of the doctors from our office. In addition to discussing the cause of death, we will be considering the welfare of other children in the home.”

  Bucky jumps to his feet, knocking over his chair. “There are no other children in the home. Chrissy was my only child.” He leans over the investigator. “If you think one of us did this to Chrissy, you’re crazy.”

  The interior door opens and a uniformed officer walks in the room, summoned by some secret code or button. It’s obvious he and the investigator have encountered this kill-the-messenger reaction before.

  Kathryn leans forward. “Bucky, please, sit down. You’re making things worse.”

  JJ stands. Towering over Bucky. “Kathryn’s right. Please sit down. I’d like to get this over with. Chrissy’s at peace, Bucky. What’s happened has happened. I just want to go home.”

  He turns on her. “You don’t have a home, you have a fucking commune.”

  The uniformed officer steps further into the room.

  “Please, Mr. Stewart, let’s all sit down again.” The investigator places her hand on Bucky’s arm and guides him into his chair as if he were not only brokenhearted, but blind. “If this is your daughter, we will need your help to understand the circumstances of her death. That’s all you can do for her now. And the first step is to make a proper identification so that the police can start their investigation.” She removes a small black-and-white photograph from the folder she’s been holding on her lap, and carefully lays it on top as if she were showing a precious object to a potential buyer. I can see from across the room that all traces of makeup have been removed. Bucky glances at it, moans softly, and starts to rock. His moaning bounces off the walls like a caged bird looking to escape. Kathryn pushes out of her chair, tries to stand, and then sinks back, collapsing against my shoulder. JJ picks the photo up and holds it, her long fingers tracing Chrissy’s image over and over again. She presses it to her chest. “May I take this with me?”

  The investigator gently pulls the photo from JJ’s hand. “I’m so sorry, but that’s not allowed. The photo is evidence. Once your daughter’s body is released you, of course, may take as many photos as you like.”

  After Frank and JJ leave, I need to use the bathroom. When I open the door, I hear Bucky and Kathryn arguing in the hall.

  “This is bullshit. I’m getting a lawyer. I’ll get my own goddamn autopsy. I don’t care what it costs, I’m not waiting any six weeks.”

  “Six weeks is just for the test results. That’s how long it takes for the results, no matter who does it. Please don’t do this, Bucky. There’s nothing to be gained by it. Let the police do their job. I don’t care if I never know the results. The idea of an autopsy destroying Chrissy’s little body is more than I can take.”

  Bucky’s howl is beyond human.

  “You see what I mean? Another autopsy will cause you more pain than you already have. Our hearts are broken. Please don’t do anything to make it worse. We need to grieve together and to plan her funeral. Let’s not let anything else get in the way.”

  Frank calls me at eight p.m. He’s at home, exhausted.

  “I just left JJ. Been there all day.”

  “I can’t imagine what she’s going through. And what you’re going through trying to be supportive.”

  He makes a kind of coughing, choking sound. I hold the phone and wait until he speaks again.

  “I have never felt so helpless in my entire life. What do you say to someone whose child has been murdered?”

  I haven’t a clue. Psychology isn’t about morality or good and evil. It’s about understanding behavior. It can be illuminating, but it is rarely comforting at a time of intense grief.

  “The place is lousy with people. Too many. Everyone who lives in the commune is milling around. Lots of hugging and crying. The phone rang all day. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone. I spent most of my time making coffee and sandwiches for people while JJ was in her bedroom weeping. Such agony. It was hard to listen to. She came out around five, refused any food, and told us all to go home because ‘It is what it is.’ God, I hate that expression. What does it mean? Roll over, forget it? Move on.”

  “What happened after she said that?”

  “She went into her studio to meditate. She’s been there ever since. I went to the store, bought some groceries, made her a pot of soup, and waited around. About six thirty a guy came looking for her. We sent him to her studio. Somebody said he was the Buddhist teacher from JJ’s spiritual center. I stuck around another hour until I got tired of waiting and went home.”

  “Sometimes all you can do is show up and be present for people. You did that. I love you for it. I’ll get in my car and come over. You could probably use a little support yourself. I can stop and get something to eat if you’re hungry.�
�

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m not fit company for anyone.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHRISSY’S BODY is released by the medical examiner within the week. The cause of death is listed as “pending.” Further testing is required on tissue and body fluid samples that were retained during the autopsy. Estimated findings regarding the cause of her death could now take as long as eight weeks, possibly longer.

  There are two funerals scheduled. The first, at Bucky and Kathryn’s place of worship, is private, family only. The announcement is accompanied by an obituary in the local paper and a picture of Chrissy, smiling and happy. She is seated in an upholstered chair in front of a fireplace, wearing a red velvet dress, patent leather Mary Janes, and white socks trimmed with lace ruffles. I think back to JJ’s so very different portrait. That poor child led two parallel lives. Both of them far too short.

  Frank and I are invited to what JJ insists is not a funeral but a celebration of Chrissy’s life and a rite of transition. At the commune, in the large gallery. I’m on my way to talk to Pence. No doubt there will be cops at the celebration, scanning the crowd for suspects. If that’s how Pence finds out that I have a personal relationship with JJ, I’ll be in a lot of trouble.

  I catch him in his office before the staff meeting. I haven’t seen him since the day Chrissy’s body was found. He looks exhausted. Bloodshot eyes ringed by puffy dark circles. Pence is not one to get emotionally involved with cases, but who isn’t thunderstruck by the murder of this innocent child, her face a painted mockery of God-knows-what happened to her before she died. Whatever I think or feel about him is beside the point. This is happening on his watch. The buck always stops with the chief.

  “Rough week?” I ask.

  “The worst.” He drops his briefcase on his desk. Stares at it lying there unopened.

  “Coffee?” His secretary has been in early and started the coffeepot. “Black, cream, sugar?”

  “Black.”

  The mugs on the tray next to the coffeepot are cobalt blue with gold KPD insignia. I fill one and hand it to him. Both of us silently surprised that I, of all people, am serving him coffee.

  “These are nice.”

  “My wife bought them for me. Trying to add a little class to my office.” He looks around. “I told her, it’s going to take more than that.” He takes a sip. “What can I do for you, Dot?” He sounds resigned, none of the usual irritation or impatience in his voice.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  He lets out a long sigh, as though I’m about to deliver another one of the hundreds of dead-end tips that have come in over the tip line.

  “Shoot.”

  “You should know that I have a personal relationship with JoAnn Juliette.” There’s a twitch in one of his eyebrows. Nothing more. “My fiancé, Frank, studies photography. He’s part of a small group of people who study with JoAnn Juliette at her studio, in the commune where she lives. Besides having talked to her here at headquarters before the TV interviews, I’ve been to a photo show she put on at a local gallery and an exhibit of her students’ work at the commune. I was also present when she and Bucky went to identify Chrissy’s body.”

  Pence opens his mouth to say something and then closes it again.

  “Frank has grown close to JJ. After Chrissy was kidnapped, JJ stayed at Frank’s house for several days to avoid the press. I had dinner with the two of them one evening. Actually, JJ wouldn’t eat. And she’s invited us to Chrissy’s funeral.”

  He looks at me. His face unreadable. “Anything else?”

  “I know a little about JJ and Bucky’s relationship.”

  “And you’re going to tell me that you can’t tell me about it because it’s confidential. Is that it?” The Pence I know is finally waking up.

  “No. I’m not going to say that. JJ is not my client. She’s also really not my friend, more like an acquaintance. She’s Frank’s friend and an important person in his life.”

  “Does Frank take nude pictures of little kids, too?”

  “No. He takes photos of people at work. Most of his portraits are of construction workers.” Pence nods. “I should also tell you I’ve talked briefly with Chrissy’s stepmother when JJ had a show at the gallery.”

  “And Chrissy’s father?”

  “You asked me to interview him and JJ to see if they could cooperate for the TV interview. And then I saw him again when he crashed into the conference room demanding Chrissy’s body be released. As I said, I was also present at the coroner’s office when he and JJ went to identify Chrissy’s body. No other contact.”

  Pence drums his fingers against his desk for a long minute. “Do you have any information relevant to Chrissy’s death?”

  “No.”

  “What’s your opinion about JJ? Is she off the charts? Is she a pervert?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “What about this cult she belongs to?”

  “What cult?”

  “They sit around on pillows. Burning incense. Chanting.”

  “I think she’s a Buddhist. Buddhism is not a cult.”

  “It is in my book. Unless you’re Chinese.” Pence is either incredibly ignorant or he’s baiting me. I choose the latter and don’t bite.

  “What I’m really asking is do you think the mother did this?”

  “You mean murdered her own child? No. Definitely not. Some might call her eccentric. But I think her grief and despair are genuine. So does Frank who knows her better than I do. And I trust his opinion.”

  “Good thing if you’re going to marry him. What about Bucky or the stepmother?”

  “The father’s like a loose cannon. But according to JJ, both he and the stepmother adored Chrissy. They were concerned about her living in a commune. And about the photos.”

  “No shit. Glad somebody has some sense.” He takes another sip of coffee and swallows loudly.

  “I know parents are the first suspects in a child abduction, but even if Bucky and JJ were fighting over custody, why would either one of them kill the very child they were fighting over?”

  “If I can’t have her, neither can you. Happens all the time.”

  I don’t know about happens all the time. I’m a psychologist, not a criminologist. “What about the makeup, the lipstick, and the eyelashes? Doesn’t that suggest pornography? Isn’t that what you’ve been worried about? The whole reason you started the task force? Maybe Chrissy was kidnapped by a pornographer who saw JJ’s photographs. Maybe he thought he could use JJ’s famous photos as a come-on to his own pictures of Chrissy.” The very thought makes me nauseous.

  “Interesting theory. What are you now, an FBI profiler? The big mistake amateurs make, Dr. Meyerhoff, is to fit the facts to the theory rather than let the facts create the theory. I believe psychologists call that deductive rather than inductive reasoning.” He swings his chair around so that the sun coming in the window puts him in silhouette, and I can’t see his face. “I will continue to order my officers to investigate any and every lead,” he says as though he’s back at the podium, talking to the press. “I’ve asked Manny to head up the investigation.”

  “This is a homicide. Manny’s not a homicide detective.”

  He swivels his chair back to face me.

  “First you objected when I appointed Manny to the ICAC team. Now you think putting him in charge of this investigation is a bad idea. What is it with you and Manny? And does Frank the Fiancé know?”

  I ignore the implication. Manny is young enough to be my son.

  “It’s the principle,” I say. “When you give people responsibilities without the proper training or screening, it creates stress. That’s part of my contract, to identify sources of organizational stress.”

  “I pay you big money to screen and train my employees, to insure they won’t fall apart on the job. Manny’s a good man. A capable officer. Credentialed to investigate crimes associated with child pornography. Which, as you have suggested, is a distinct
possibility in this case. He can handle whatever I give him. Stop babying him.”

  “I’m not babying him. I’m trying to apply behavioral science to making wise employment decisions.”

  “Well then, how about employing some behavioral science to your friendship with Chrissy’s mother? That would be a lot more useful. Instead of digging around in my business, dig around in hers.”

  My father’s voice rises up in my head. He would have called Pence a Nazi. Warned me not to cooperate, railed that a Jew doesn’t turn her friends over to the enemy.

  “But she’s a friend.”

  “I thought you said she was only an acquaintance.”

  “Whatever. My relationship with her is personal. I’m not going to dig around in her life.”

  “I don’t care if you think she’s Mother Teresa. You work for me. If you withhold information pertinent to this case, I can charge you as an accessory to Chrissy’s murder.”

  I have no idea if this is or isn’t legal, but it certainly feels threatening.

  “Are you asking me to play undercover cop with my personal associates? You have forbidden me to get involved in police investigations. In no uncertain terms and on multiple occasions.”

  Pence grins. Invigorated by our little fencing match. “I’ve changed my mind. It’s a man’s prerogative as much as it is a woman’s. You are in a position to be helpful, rather than interfering. It’s probably a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so I’m going to take it.”

  “How I can be helpful?”

  “Keep your eyes and ears open. If you hear something, anything, that might be relevant, bring it to me or Manny. We’ll decide if it’s useful.”

  “And if Frank hates me for spying on his friend and teacher?”

  “I can’t help you with that.”

  “And if the person who killed Chrissy tries to kill me?”

  Pence stands up, walks to my side, and gives me an avuncular pat on the shoulder. “Do let me know about that. Preferably before it happens.”

  The morning of Chrissy’s celebration and rite of transition is gloomy. JJ has requested mourners to wear white. Anything white that I own is stuffed with my summer clothes in a plastic bag under my bed. The best I can come up with is a gray silk shirt the color of the sky and dark gray pants. When Frank picks me up, I see the same is true for him. We drive together, silently, two people dressed in gray with moods to match.